D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“She has an interest in ev’rythin’ tha’ happens in this city. Ya should know tha’ by now.”

Ethan glanced back to make sure none of the other men had followed them. He saw no one.

“She wanted me t’ tell ya tha’ this is no time for ya t’ try an’ be some sorta hero. Ya should take th’ brooch an’ be done. Ya’ve had a taste o’ workin’ for th’ Beacon Street crowd-th’ Abner Bersons an’ their kind. Ya could make a lot o’ money. This is no time for ya t’ do somethin’ stupid.”

“Yesterday she told me that I was never again to work for the Abner Bersons of the world. Now she’s trying to tempt me with their silver? Tell Sephira she should make up her mind.”

They crossed Fish Street and entered another alley. It seemed that they were headed toward the North Battery.

“Where are we going, Yellow-hair?”

The man looked at him. “Yellow-hair?”

Ethan shrugged. “That’s what I call you. I don’t know your name.”

The man shook his head and laughed. “It’s Nigel.”

“All right. Where are we going, Nigel?”

“Not much longer now.”

They fell into another brief silence.

“Ya’re wastin yar time, ya know,” Nigel said at length.

“It’s a waste of time to learn who killed Jennifer Berson?”

“We already know who killed her. Ya’re not helpin’ th’ Bersons, an’ ya’re not helpin’ yarself.”

“That’s crazy!” Ethan said. “You don’t think Berson and his wife want to find out who killed their daughter and why?”

“Ya’re no’ listenin’, Kaille! He’ll be satisfied when he gets his jewel back, an’ when he knows for certain tha’ she’s dead ’cuz o’ tha’ mob. Whoever killed her was takin’ orders from Ebenezer Mackintosh. He’s gonna hang for this, an’ when he does, justice’ll be done.”

He sounded too sure of himself. Ethan felt uneasy. He slowed, then halted. “Where are we going? What is this all about?”

Nigel didn’t stop. “Jus’ a bit farther.”

Ethan began to follow again, his grip on his knife tightening. He said nothing more to the man, and Nigel seemed content to walk in silence. Eventually they reached the North Battery and turned onto Battery Alley. They hadn’t gone far on the narrow lane when Nigel stopped.

Ethan looked around warily. “What are we doing here?”

“Miss Pryce had one more message for ya,” Nigel said. He paused, his brow creasing. “It went like this: Ya owe me a word o’ thanks for cleanin’ up yar mess.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Yar mess, Kaille. Daniel Folter.”

Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. “What about him?”

“Miss Pryce is sure it was an oversight. Ya were supposed t’ hand him over t’ th’ sheriff, or failin’ that, take care o’ him yarself. But ya didn’. Th’ people o’ Boston have t’ feel safe. They have t’ know tha’ th’ men who steal from them will be dealt with. Mercy is weakness, she told me t’ say, an’ she thinks ya’re weak.”

“That… demon.” It came out as a whisper.

Nigel grinned. “Ya shoulda taken care o’ it yarself. We only did wha’ you had been hired t’ do.”

He turned his head slowly and looked into an alley. Following the line of his gaze, Ethan saw a form lying in the shadows. He couldn’t see a face, but what he did see-long legs, torn breeches, a worn, bloodstained waistcoat, and more blood staining the cobblestones-told him all he needed to know.

“I should kill you where you stand,” Ethan said, raising his knife to his forearm.

Nigel grabbed his pistol from his pocket and leveled it at Ethan’s chest.

“Ethan?”

They turned at the same time to stare at the boy who had stepped onto the street from another small alley leading off toward the wharves.

Holin Harper, the oldest child of Marielle, Ethan’s former betrothed, stood at the corner, flanked by Pitch and Shelly. Ethan had no idea what the boy was doing here or how he had found them, but he could not allow Marielle’s child to come to harm. Yellow-hair appeared to sense this, like a wolf smelling fear in its prey. His eyes flicked in Ethan’s direction, and there was a grin on his lips.

Both dogs growled deep in their throats, their hackles rising.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ethan said, his voice low.

This had to be done carefully. Neither Holin nor his sister knew that Ethan was a conjurer and Elli would have his head if they found out. Worse, she would forbid them to see Ethan again.

“Leave us now,” he told Sephira’s man. “Or I swear I won’t care at all what happens to me.”

Fear flashed in the man’s dark eyes. But his grin returned quickly, even as he put the pistol back in his pocket. “Fine, Kaille.” He looked at the boy again and chuckled. “But ya better give a thought t’ Miss Pryce’s message.” He nodded toward the alley where lay Daniel’s body. “Tha’ could be you.” He smiled at Holin and started back the way he and Ethan had come.

Ethan stood silently, his forearm itching, his blade hand shaking. He wanted to feel hot blood running over his skin. He wanted to draw upon the power coursing through his body and reduce the smug bastard to a pile of ash.

But he merely stood there, feeling utterly helpless as he watched Sephira’s man walk away.

“ He works for Sephira Pryce!”

Ethan felt ill. He’d had few dealings with Folter; like Kannice, he thought him a fool. But he had chosen to let the pup go, to spare him years in prison or worse. Corbett wouldn’t have approved, but the merchant had hired him to deal with the matter, and Ethan had done so, in his own way. There had been no harm in it. Corbett had his jewels back, and Folter would still be alive if he had left the city as Ethan told him to. The fool. The poor, dead fool.

“Ethan?”

He should do something for Daniel. He should cover the body, or at least get word to the sheriff. But right now, he was more concerned with keeping Holin out of that bloodied alley.

Mercy is weakness.

He refused to believe that. He was a mutineer and a conjurer. The members of the Admiralty Court had known this when they sent Ethan to labor in the cane fields rather than sentencing him to swing from the gallows. That had been an act of mercy, an acknowledgment that while Ethan had done wrong, he had been young and stupid rather than truly wicked. Where was the weakness in what the court had done?

“Ethan?”

Holin stood with his hands buried in his pockets, his eyes following Yellow-hair, who was still on Ann Street, though out of earshot.

“That man works for Sephira Pryce, doesn’t he? He even mentioned her.”

Every time Ethan saw Holin he thought the boy must have grown by half a foot or more. He had nearly reached Ethan’s height and would probably grow another six inches before he was done. Still, his face was that of a boy, and he remained gangly. He looked like he was never sure of the whereabouts of all four limbs at once. His skin was fair, his hair the color of wheat, his eyes like the sky on a clear autumn morning. His features were so fine as to be girlish and he still had no hint of his first beard.

The boy turned to him. “Are you all right? Your face…”

“I’m fine,” Ethan said, making himself smile. “It looks worse than it feels.”

“It looks pretty bad.”

Shelly nudged Ethan’s hand with her snout; he scratched her head absently. “I know. And yes, that man works for Sephira Pryce.”

“It looked like you two were fighting.”

“Sephira and I are both thieftakers,” Ethan said, as if that explained everything. “It’s natural that we should be rivals.” He frowned, noticing for the first time where they were, and where the boy had been. “What are you doing down here, Holin? The wharves are no place for…” He had been about to say “for a boy,” but he stopped himself. “For someone your age,” he said instead.